


In Death Sacrifice

by Vander38



Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-03
Updated: 2019-07-03
Packaged: 2020-06-03 14:42:10
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 6
Words: 5,855
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19466137
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Vander38/pseuds/Vander38
Summary: The Journey of a warden from his conscription all the way to the Siege of Adamant and the lives of those he meets and the truths he knows.





	1. My Execution

It always rains at executions.

Some say it is the tears of Andraste, washing the sins of the dead away.

Others say it is just a coincidence.

I don’t know why it is this way, but I know it rained at mine.

The rain was good, it hid the tears, it kept the crowds away, normally a market day hanging would draw a crowd to watch the hemp dancers. Now though only a few blood thirsty onlookers stayed. Them and the street kids, the ones waiting to check the pockets of the dead for coin, or to steal shoes.

My corpse would be scorned and ignored, I had no coppers in my pockets I hadn’t even shoes, not then.  
I had once, once I had shoes, freshly made, leather shining as the sun, softer than sin.

I was caught wearing those shoes and they took them from me, sentenced me to swing, all for being too poor to buy shoes.

I was the last to die that day, no long drop for a merciful end and a quick break. No the hangman wanted the crowd to see, he wanted them to watch as men died in agony. Skin burning as the neck stretched, kicking to find ground just out of reach, pissing themselves as they struggled and slumped to twist in the breeze.

I watched the crowd, praying to any that would hear, to at least make it quick.

As I watched a group joined the crowd, a dozen strong at least, hooded and cloaked against the rain.

One strode the gallows, spurred boots jangling on the wet stone, he ignored the hangman’s protests and pushed him aside as he came up to me and stared long and hard.

“Look at me boy.” His command, in a voice that was deep and guttural, a voice that compelled me to look. Beneath his hood he had the face from a nightmare, thick black hair, a rough scar across his face, his single eye was bloodshot, the other missing behind a black patch, he is old, or has lived a hard life, deep lines on his brow.

“What’s your name boy?” He asked.

“Will Ser.” I stammer, not wanting to answer, but fearing the opposite.

“Why are you to die this day Will?” He asked, not unkindly.

“Theft Ser, just theft.”

“A great crime Will, great indeed if it worth your death, what did you steal?”

“Shoes Ser, just shoes.” I cry then, it’s all so pointless, how are shoes worth more than a life?

“I see no shoes on you Will, did you steal or do you lie?” His voice was harsh once more.

“They took them back, when they caught me.” I say miserably.

“You knew the penalty?” He asked.

I nod

“If you would die for shoes, would you die for a friend?” He asked, his voice calm.

I nod, too scared to speak.

“Would you die for your people?” He asked.

Again I nod.

“Would you shed your blood for Thedas?” He asked, his voice a low growl.

I look at him, meeting his gaze without fear, something inside calms me, why ask me this, who is this man. “Yes Ser.”  
I say, my voice stronger.

The man turns to face the hangman, “Let the boy live!” He commands, the hangman starts a protest but quicker than lightning the cloak flies away and in place of an old half blind man stands a Grey Warden, clad in blue leather and silver chainmail, on his chest the crest of the flying Griffon shines and his sword is at the neck of the hangman, three feet of well used steel.

The hangman swallows and backs away, the sword chopped once and the rope is severed. The Warden sheaths his blade, “This boy belongs now to the Wardens, by ancient rite he is ours, do any here have cause to deny us our rite?” He calls out, there is no answer from the crowd.

“Thought not.” He muttered as he drags me from the gallows to his waiting group.


	2. The Joining

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> From the nameless town to the great Weisshaupt

“Soon as Darkspawn see the boy they’ll die laughing.” One said, to laughter from the others. We were in a tavern on a nameless crossroads, half the group were Wardens, veteran hunters of Darkspawn, others like me were recruits, some by Rite of Conscription, others running from the wrong end of a rope, one from a new bride and another to find a life more useful than that of the youngest son of a minor lord.

The leader of the group, the one eyed Feraldan sits silent, watching everything, he ignores the jokes and stories, but sharpens a blade, a long hook bladed Elven knife. 

Near midnight he pulls a large bundle from his pack, he calls over each recruit in turn and hands out weapons, axes and maces, swords and knives, the Lords son has provided his own sword and shield, much worn from practice. I received the hook bladed dagger, and a straight edged knife to join.

He announced there and then that we were near a cave known to have Darkspawn, that our test was to go in, kill what we found and to bring blood in glass vials that he passed around.

The next morning we entered the cave, the lord went first. The fighting was terrible, close and cramped and dark and bloody. Screams and shouts, curses and the strange noises of the spawn. I killed my first then, a duck under a swung blade, a thrust up under the ribs, tearing skin and flesh as its blood soaked down my arm, it fell and dragged me down, swearing and stabbing, over and over. The lord dragged me away, telling me it was dead, that I should be magnanimous in victory, proud of surviving, proof that we could all make it as Wardens.

Two men of our group died, they died hard, fighting to the last. We brought their bodies with us when we left the caverns, they were burned, their names recorded as Wardens.

For another six weeks we marched, finally reaching the great Fortress city of Weisshaupt, shining granite walls, thick and bristling with weapons.

We were led to a grand chamber, and that first night we undertook the Joining.  
The great terrible ritual that gives the Wardens power, a power greater than the Blight, the power to slay an Archdemon forever, at the cost of the one to do so, but what is the cost of one against so many?

To each in turn the old words were spoken as we drank from the cup. I remember pain, pure agony, a burning in my chest and limbs. Then I knew no more. I woke later, staring into the face of the one eyed veteran, he helped me to sit.

“How do you feel boy?” His first words to me since the hanging.

“Weak, sick, cold.” I managed to say.

He nods, “I felt the same.” His voice is gruff.

“Is everyone?” I ask, unable to finish, I can already see one body, covered in a sheet.

“Three dead, Tom the millers son, Ser Joyce of Denerim and Radagast the elf, they died well.” The Fereldan says, his tone reverential, he fixes his gaze on me.

“You are a Warden now boy, it is a hard path for you now, the hardest any can know. The only ones who can understand wear this crest and share our creed, so get to know them, these men and women, put aside whatever ideas you have of fellowship, you will learn a new way of life.” He pauses, then takes my shoulder in his rough hand.

“You are part of this family now, learn the names, the stories, remember those who die, carry them with you and use them as armour against the spawn and when you die, join them as companions once more.”

“I will Ser.” I say, my voice even, I feel stronger now, warmer I match his gaze without fear.

“No Sers in the Wardens Will, I am Danielssen.”


	3. In Peace Vigilance

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Watching the Wider World

For a year I stayed at Weisshaupt, training and learning, learning all there is to know of Darkspawn, the different breeds and powers, I learned how to kill, the upward stroke below the ribs, the downward plunge into the upper spine. I learned to stand in a shield wall, to shoot a great war bow, to turn a spell aside to fight as a team, a group against the world.

I learned my group, my war band, there was Shem, the Dalish elf mage with intricate lines on his face and no shoes on his feet, he was a quiet man, averaging six words and two facial expressions a week. There was Duster, a Dwarf Noble exiled as part of the turning wheel of Dwarven politics, he was a terror with an axe in each hand and told riddles that would befuddle the head and confuse the soul. Fiona Couseland, a cousin of sorts to the Hero of Ferelden, unmatched with her great bow and a terror with a flute. And finally there was Lord Gregory the small, seven feet of muscle and sinew, he could bend steel and break walls, he would set us laughing with crude jokes and insults, if amused his own laugh would shake the walls, his snores could wake the dead and the less said of his farts the better.  
We became friends, family even, family of choice, alone against the world, unbeatable together.

After that first year we went out into the world, hunting Darkspawn, chasing rumours, to Soldiers Peak, to Denerim and the edge of Tevinter. Through forgotten forests, and up nameless peaks. We grew stronger, learned more in the wilds than we ever could from a book, to pick locks, start fires in a downpour, to keep warm in a blizzard and cool in the great western deserts.

Twice we went to the Deep Roads, sending elder Wardens on their last march. The final fate of a Warden, to be armoured and armed as they see fit, to march from the Borders of the Dwarf city of Orzammar into the abandoned halls and paths of the Deep Roads until they are slain amongst their dead foes. Old Frenrir and Toothless Charley marched far into those roads never to see light again.

We gathered recruits, some volunteers, others taken from jails or the end of a rope. We took them to Weisshaupt to take the Ritual, some lived to fight, others died, cleanly from a bleed in the brain, or drowning on dry land as their lungs were choked into bloody scraps. Once I gave the last mercy, a swift cut to the top of the spine, a pair of twins, they had joined together, drank together, were blinded and crippled together, then they died together, William and Benrick, more martyrs for the great defence of Thedas.

In my third year in the Wardens we marched to Orlais, to join the garrison in Val Royeaux . We watched for signs, listening to rumours and we hunted, we killed many and sought signs of a returning Blight, a vigilant peace. 

The world passed us by, passing of kings and the great game meant little to us. We heard stories of the great war in the city of chains, a Qunari attack on Kirkwall, stopped by one man, a Champion and Mage in single combat against the Arishok of the Qun. It was a fireside tale on long nights but meant nothing more. Years later more news from Kirkwall, a great blast, a Chantry destroyed and a hundred dead innocents. We sympathised but our path led to a different road.

Then came the news of the rebellion, fires starting in Kirkwall spreading, Templars and the Circles at throats. It didn’t matter to us, it is not and never will be our fight.

Then came the word of the Breach, a great explosion tearing the sky apart, across Thedas holes into fade and the demons came. We fight them where we must, but our war is different.


	4. The Calling

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The great Calling begins, the final curse of each Warden, but it is wrong

Soon though the whispers began, first in dreams, then awake. Warden Commander Clarel grew worried, she heard it too, she wrote to Weisshaupt, but heard no reply. The whispers grew louder, we all grew concerned, this isn’t how it is meant to be, not all at once, not all together. Then came the Magister, a Tevinter of some renown, I didn’t like him, his hands too soft and clothes too clean.  
He and Clarel spoke in private at great length. Over several days and each time I saw her, she looked graver, seemed scared even, gone were the days when she would greet us all in passing, no more small conversations or concerts, she stayed silent, deep in thought, hunched over, her staff as much for support as for a weapon.

A week passed and she ordered us to prepare for a long march into the west, to the abandoned fortress of Adamant. Once it was as mighty as Weisshaupt, now it was an old relic, a reminder of the great Blights, a castle on the edge of the great gaping maw.

We did so, there was an air of unease over everyone, young, old, we could all feel it, something was wrong. The place felt cursed, like the deeper Thaigs of the deep roads, this was no place for the living to linger, not a place of songs or stories, not a place of love or honour. The castle was huge, too big, it loomed above us and it’s halls and alleys swallowed us.

There we learned of our new purpose, the answer to the whispers. Clarel stood above us, the Magister stood at her left hand. We learned that the whispers were our Calling, when the Blight within each Warden called out and the mortal soul would answer. Normally to each Warden a choice was given, a long march into the Deep Roads, or a ritual suicide.

We learned that we were not alone, every Warden in Thedas was hearing the silent whispers, the calls of death. That we were all going to die or turn to the Blight, to join the dark horde to destroy the world. We learned that we would die too soon, the Old Gods were still to be woken, that without us there was no chance for Thedas.

Then the Magister spoke, his voice was intelligent and held us in thrall. He spoke of ancient magics, powerful magic, magic that was forgotten by almost all, banned and destroyed by the Chantry and Templars. He told us of rituals, bindings and sacrifice, a willing ritual to bind a demon to the will of the Wardens. With enough sacrifice we could make an army that would launch an assault on the Deep Roads. An army that would never know pain, or fear, never know doubt, an army that could march a thousand miles into battle and win at the end, an army that could ignore wounds and hunger, an army that could reach the Dead Trenches and find the prisons of the Archdemons, an army that would slay them as they slept. An army that would lead to our great victory an army that would ensure Thedas could stay safe.

His words were what we wanted, needed to hear, a chance to protect the world. A chance to save Thedas forever.

Clarel agreed with him, so we were here to start these rituals, it would take time, she said, to conduct them, so we were to remain Vigilant and watch for threats. She didn’t say who we were to watch against.

For a month the rituals were conducted, each evening there would be fewer faces around the fires, another shade in the pen.  
The nights were quiet, conversation was to fill the silence rather than for fun or debate, and soon they would wither away.

At the end of the month we were at half strength, half our number were now dead, replaced by the silent shades. We also learned more of the outside world.

Our ritual site was taken, shortly afterwards the Magister returned, his tail between his legs. He spoke of a battle, of traitorous Wardens, of soldiers of the Inquisition. Of a mage who strode through the slaughter and chased him away.

Clarel took charge, her mind was set, her will strong and her voice had the iron grip of command, “Prepare for battle!”


	5. In War Victory

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Siege!

We prepared for a siege, shoring up older fortifications, thickening doors and gates, preparing traps and barricades. We prepared oil we could boil to pour over ladders, stocked stones for trebuchets, stocked bolts for ballistas, arrows for archers. We piled heavy rotten timbers and stones no good for construction above the gate, to throw down at the enemy, darts and daggers, javelins and heavy lumps of metal to rain down upon the enemy.

We reached out, sappers looked at us, trying to see us like the enemy would, we dug pits at places they could site artillery, painted rocks at known distances so we could fire more accurately. We even had artificers lay bomb pits and filled yet more pits with oil set to burn.

We narrowed the bridge so they could not come in huge numbers. Demolished walls and outbuildings to deny them material to hide behind or fire at us. We stockpiled water and food.

We were confident, we knew we did not need a victory, we needed time, time to complete more rituals. We would get that time.

The enemy came quickly, a great host, with banners flying in the wind, armour shining in the sun. They marched in columns of men, armed and grim, there were carts of supplies and artillery, they carried ladders and at the very back they had two great towers to scale our walls.

We feared those towers, plated in silverite and leather they could reach our walls and vomit men onto the top. They were small to hit at range with our big trebuchets and could resist any arrow or even spells, they would have to come close for us to hit their sides, the only weakness.

We waited as the enemy set camp, we watched as they assembled their artillery, we begged Clarel to allow us to sally out and attack, she refused, saying it would cost us too much for too little time.

For days we waited as they built, we could hear them from the walls, the constant noise of construction, of steel being sharpened, wood being hammered into place. When the wind was right we caught snatches of conversation, of women and family, of their fears of what is to come.

A week after they arrived they started to bombard us. Rocks, flaming boulders, barrels of oil rained down. From dawn until dusk they launched at us, we sheltered where we could, waiting for them to launch an escalade. None came, we wondered when they would, or if they would leave us to starve to death.

They came the next day.

In the night they had moved forth their towers and ladders. They charged before dawn, we heard their great cry and instantly roused from fitful sleep.

At six hundred yards we drew our weapons, tightened strings on bows, a last prayer, a touch to a talisman for luck, a last drink of water.

At four hundred yards we fired back. Large hammers kicked pegs, weights dropped down fast, burning barrels of oil flew through the air. They smashed apart in a great flaming cloud of oil, we heard screams, ladders and men fell, writhing in flames.

At three hundred yards our catapults launched, heavy stones the size of a mans head. They flew at a low angle, bouncing into files of men at hip height. The sappers called it grazing.

At one hundred and fifty yards our archers launched, first in volleys of flaming arrows, then as they came still closer each archer could pick their marks with bodkins.

At zero yards the ladders reached the walls. The first men leapt to our walls, Small Gregory killed the first enemy as a warrior, his hammer slamming the man down in a bloody crush of smashed bone, he then threw his bulk against the ladder and pushed it away, hearing screams as it fell.

My daggers danced through the fray, ducking men, bringing razor sharp points up under arms, or in the back of legs, places no good armour could go. Duster was more efficient, his axes moved in short, bloody strokes. We were winning, each ladder could only spill a few men at a time, breathless from the climb. “Fiona, two already.” I shouted to her, she laughed as she drew another arrow, “I’m on seventeen.” She shouted back.

I laughed, spirits soaring. I danced back into the fray, men fell back, some to move no more, others wounded cruelly. I reached a ladder, kicked the man to fall down and stared out over the press of men, my eyes caught a man, an enemy. His face was long with a dropping mustache and a large nose, his eyes met mine and he shrugged. I raised an arm in an ironic salute, he raised his both knowing how weird it is, to go from a salute to killing in the space of moments. I turn and desperately parry as yet more men come, my bloody blades whip out, men fall dying or blinded.

The spirits fell as the towers reached us. They dropped stout bridges onto our walls and spilled a torrent of men.

We fought, killed, shouted, swore, bled, died. Shields met shields in the deadly scrum as men pushed men. Arrows flew indiscriminately, the ground grew slippery in blood, the wounded died underfoot, crushed by the press of people. More men climbed the ladders within the towers, adding to the press. The battle of swords was over, only weight mattered to hold them.

From towers the archers fired at the men rushing to ladders, then stopped. More men flooded the towers. The archers waited then as a flag was raised, they saw the signal. Pulled tarpaulins from stout ballistas, aimed quickly and fired. A thick bolt, each the width of a man's arm, with grappling hook barbed head and a stout rope attached, flew fast through the air.  
They punched through and gripped the thick sides of the tower, then at the other end of the ropes, the weights were dropped.

Men screamed and fell as the towers shook, then started to fall. The crowds of men at the ladder bases fled as the towers crashed down.

The enemy on the walls, trapped alone with no reinforcements, died hard. But they did die, to the last man.

We rushed to the parapet, archers shooting quickly as the crowds below fled, I watched as the man I had seen before, the one with the big nose and mustache walked away. He seemed to lead a charmed life as he walked slowly, guiding wounded men. At the crest of a hill he turned and raised his arm in salute, Fiona drew her bow next to me, at this range she could choose where to place the arrow, I pressed my hand to the bow and forced it down, she glared at me, then understood as I raised my arm in answer to his. It’s funny, we were sworn enemies, yet I was glad he lived, I didn’t know him, probably never would but the shared band of brotherhood sometimes extends to the enemy, after all they understand.

It was midday.

They pulled back in the afternoon, we rested watching them as wounded tried to crawl back to their lines, most didn’t make it.


	6. In Death Sacrifice

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Siege's end

In the evening they again bombarded us, we fired back. No more men came that day.

“The first attack is meant to fail.” Fiona stated confidently as we ate a lean meal, “The forlorn hope is to probe us, spring our traps early so the rest can get through.” Her voice was grim, her normally fair face was dark, with a small cut above her brow.  
“Yeah well the rest have yet to meet me.” Gregory rumbled, stroking his hammer, the long handle had notches for each enemy killed, I had tried to count them once and lost track at two hundred.  
“They will be back soon, the bombardment will be harder, to destroy us and keep us down, they will not stop until the ladders are at the walls and they are at the gate.” Fiona stated.

“When did you learn siege warfare?” Duster asked in his surly voice, more bitter than normal due to his heavily bandaged hand.

“I read a lot in Val Royeaux, the library was quite extensive.” Fiona replied.  
“That the building with all them books?” Duster asked.

“Libraries usually have a lot of books, that’s kinda the point.” I say, Duster shoots a glare as Fiona chuckles, even silent Shem seems to smile.

“I remember there was a redhead there, not too bad for a human.” He says, scratching his beard.

“She was very helpful in finding the right books.” Fiona said with a smirk, “Very good at keeping me awake at night if you know what I mean.”

“We get it, I fucked her too.” Gregory says, laughing at Fiona’s slightly put out look.

“And that is why I am not going to talk to you anymore Gregory.” She stated flatly.  
They were always like this, Gregory would say something and Fiona would get annoyed, usually it was sexual, they had briefly dated but it ended badly and Fiona had sworn off men ever since. For his part Gregory swore that Fiona would never find a man as good as her, Fiona had a different story but had sworn me to secrecy.

There was a tense silence, not due to their argument, they would be friendly again as soon as they could get over themselves. But due to what was to come, we stared out at the enemy, Fiona had told me once that you could get an estimate of numbers by assuming ten men to a fire then counting the flames. I counted them and as I reached two hundred I stopped.

The night drew closer, and colder. Gregory, ever one of those people who could sleep anywhere started snoring. Duster spat over the parapet and muttered “Should send him to sleep with the enemy, keep them up all night.”

“I think that counts as unnecessary cruelty.” Fiona states fondly. Despite everything between them, she does like Gregory, we all like him, he has one of those faces with puppy eyes, despite being a hugely powerful man he was gentle, tender and kind, ever poor he gave away his coin to beggars, he would play with children and help any who needed help, he even slept with a very old teddy nug under his arm that he thought we didn’t know about.

The conversation fades after that and the others drift to sleep, I stay awake, stoking the fire occasionally, I listen to the snores, to Duster’s sleep talking, every night he goes through the events that led to his exile, only in a way he could have won. I listen to Fiona’s soft breaths, occasionally a murmur or a whimper, silenced by her thumb in her mouth. 

“It’s the Chantry.”

The voice startles me and I half draw a dagger before realizing it was Shem. I had assumed he was asleep but he was wide awake, his big eyes reflected the firelight.

“Out there, it’s the Chantry, they call themselves the Inquisition but no, It’s always the Chantry.”

I find myself enthralled in his words, his voice was soft and urgent. I swallowed hard, wanting to speak but whether he was using magic or it was the shock of hearing him say more words than since I had known him, I stayed silent.

“The Chantry has to have power, they hold power over the hearts of all who believe, they have the power of the Maker over those who believe.”

A pause, there is silence but for the crackle of the fire.

“The power comes from fear, fear of the darkness, fear of the Qunari, fear of the Darkspawn.”

I feel my heart in my throat as he talks, I try to digest his words.

“We have found a way to defeat the Darkspawn forever, our rituals, our sacrifice, we will win. People will not need to fear. We will take their source of power from them.”

He looks older as he stares into the fire.

“The Chantry needs that power to survive, so they march against us. They come to destroy us, to stop our victory, they would keep the Blights to keep their power.”

Another heavy pause, wind whistles in the background.

“They marched against my people once, because our beliefs were different. They destroyed us because we were a threat to our power. The Chantry will always try to destroy those who they believe to be a threat. So now they send this Inquisition against us.”

I barely breathe as I listen.

“Think, the Circles dissolved, so the Inquisition took the mages as slaves, they saved the Empress of Orlais and have got her backing and power for the Chantry. Now they come for us, to take our power.”

He meets my eyes, staring deep into my soul, “You better be quicker with those knives.”

All of us were awake by now, staring at Shem, silent and deep in thought.

He leans back against a wall, closes his eyes and seems to sleep, his chest rises and falls in a slow, steady rhythm. I look to the others, all awake, all heard his voice. We say nothing yet the look we share says everything.

The gate fell the next evening.

All day they hammered us with trebuchets, archers with heavy crossbows rained arrows at us, no one could stand on the walls and live. They came close, with ladders and fresh troops, their arrows only stopped when their men reached the tops. I am sure they killed some of their own.

The gate fell to the hammering of a great ram. Tipped with steel, forged in the shape of a fist, it battered the splintered gates, hammered by trebuchets all day. As the gates burst apart our men managed to start hurling missiles and flaming oil down but they came in a great torrent. Arrows flew fast and hard into the mass of men flooding the gate, but they could not kill all of them. A smash of shield walls, hacking and cutting, blood sprayed high up the walls. 

A boiling bloody hell in a concrete grave.

I did not see the gate fall.

I was on the walls.

I was holding Shem’s hand.

I held Shem’s hand as he died.

He was slumped against a wall, an arrow deep in his chest. Blood bubbled at his lips, his grip was strong, slender fingers clinging to mine as only a man clinging to life can grip. “You’re going to be fine, we got a healer coming.” I said to him.

A lie, there were no healers, any mages left were in the fight, and the surgeons were far below with wounded men.

He knew it was a lie, same as me but he still smiled his small smirk as he died.

I let go of his hand as I tried to wipe my eyes, turning back to the walls I saw men in armour, the yellow leather and scale of our enemy. They saw me running, they saw my weapons, they saw me kill them. I was fast and strong, an expert in my craft, honed against Darkspawn these men were no match.

I stared at the bodies a moment, wondering what lies and falsehoods had driven them here, what made them believe so much in their cause so much that they would stop our sacrifice for Thedas. They were young men, men who died alone far from home, one of them had a large nose and drooping mustache.

I joined Duster and others as we fought through, we heard a great cheer at the gate and knew our men were falling back. But the gate was not our fight, the walls were our fight, if we could hold a minute more, kill a few more, we might finish the ritual.

I watched an enemy mage. He danced through the chaos, his staff a glaive, flinging lightning and fire, throwing ice and then he would duck and weave, his glaive would slash and tear. His coat tails flew around him as he moved faster than breathing. 

He tore into us, a great burst of flame, I was thrown aside. I watched as Duster died, a great spear of ice to his heart.

There was a bellowed roar, as Gregory came charging in, he met the mage in a great clash of flesh. The mage was strong and they fought almost as equals before the mage was able to reverse his staff and smash the heavy crystal into Gregory's Face.

He spat blood and smashed teeth as blood and snot poured from his broken nose. There was a roar of animal rage and he hurled his hammer. The mage dived desperately aside but stumbled on blood. He was bodily lifted and slammed to the ground by Gregory, the staff thrown aside. Heads met in a great clash and the mage fell back clutching his face.

They wrestled, exchanging blows that could easily kill any other man. We were in a crowd, cheering on Gregory, they were cheering for their mage who had become their Champion. The fight around us forgotten in the strange ebb and flow of combat, it’s almost funny you can be in a desperate struggle to kill but you see a strange insect and you focus on it. Anything to avoid thinking of where you are and what is happening.

Pain tore through me like wildfire, greater than the agony of the Joining. It began in my left leg and I collapsed, landing heavily. My weapon was kicked from my hand by the figure, by my enemy. She was small, a Dwarf, wearing a long overcoat over her plate and scale, her face mostly covered by a dragon helm, I could see green eyes, they were distant, cold with the fury of battle, just a hint of regret in their oceanic depths.

I stared up at her as she raised her greatsword, my breath steady, my heart calm. It’s strange, we all fear death, only the dead or liars do not. Yet now, as death came at the point of a sword plunging down I felt calm, at peace.

I had fulfilled my vow.

My Peace had been Vigilant, we had watched and hunted the Darkspawn where they came.

My War had been Victorious, not through attrition or strength of arms but by time to complete the Ritual.

I close my eyes and sigh.

My Death was Sacrifice.


End file.
